On His Own
by lone astronomer
Summary: Supplementing "No Such Place", this new fic focuses on Oliver Wood and his transition from professional Quidditch player to professional misfit. Should be lots of fun. Weasley and Kate exposure.


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On His Own  
Prologue

Notes: A series designed to go hand in hand with No Such Place. Although it deals mostly with Oliver, the title does not necessarily refer only to him. It might be a sort of double-entendre that my muse has decided he likes. At any rate, it's not all about Oliver- expect Weasley and Kate exposure, as well. And for the rest of the explanation... *shrugs* Blame it on Face.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related indicia are Ó J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., and other license holders. I am making no profit and no infringement is intended.

*

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I choose to win  
So I choose to fight

-_Weathered_, Creed

*

Oliver stepped out of the fireplace, shaking soot from his hair. It wasn't fair- it was the second time he'd been summoned in two weeks; how he was supposed to function properly with everything that was going on was completely beyond him.

He was greeted by the grim white-and-green of the notification center, sterile and above all quiet. He supposed he was probably the last to show up – he'd been out of the country with his Quidditch team and had only just returned. 

Looking down at the paper crumpled tightly in his fist, Oliver remembered the last time he had been summoned. It had been his sister Holly, last time. She had been a few years older than him and openly committed to the Order of the Phoenix- true Gryffindor spirit, showing her colors even when it could only bring her trouble. She had backed a Death Eater into a corner; that was enough of an explanation. There hadn't been much left to bury.

__

Room 15C. He found himself in front of the door in the round wall far too quickly, unsure if he wanted to open it. But there was no sense in delaying the inevitable.

Oliver very nearly turned right around again when he entered the room. Redheads. Weasleys. _Please don't let it be a Weasley_, he prayed, taking their measure. At the front of the room stood the Auror in Charge- a sick-looking Charlie Weasley. His hair was mussed and there were bloodstains on his robes. Fred and George were there, pale under their freckles. Angelina Johnson-Weasley was sobbing wretchedly into Fred's arm, and he looked almost too distraught to notice. Katie Bell was gripping the arms of her chair very tightly. Only a few more people that he recognized from Hogwarts were there, most with tissues.

He slid miserably into the seat between the twins. "Who was it?" he said quietly, addressing George. 

He looked up from the table, silent anguish in his eyes, and said very gently, as if to soften the news, "Alicia."

Nothing could have prepared him for that- for the feeling of complete hopelessness, helplessness. Alicia. He hadn't even seen her in weeks, and she was one of the few he bothered to keep in touch with. And now... now it was too late. The bottom dropped out of his stomach; the room spun. He would never see her again. He would never play Quidditch with her again. She had been such an integral part of his life at Hogwarts- and afterwards- that he had never even contemplated what it would be like to lose her... and now... Oliver swallowed hard. "Oh Merlin. What-"

"Lucius Malfoy," George continued in a dead tone. "Charlie-" He started again, "Charlie found her. He... he was too late."

Oliver looked at Charlie's state of dress again and thought of Malfoy._ Oh, if that bastard_- "The blood," he rasped, finding himself unable to continue.

"Malfoy's," answered the twin grimly, wearing an unreadable expression.

He felt the sudden, urgent need to know. "Did Charlie-"

"The bastard got away."

Oliver didn't have the heart to swear. It was suddenly too crowded in the room. "I have to go," he mumbled, standing. He made it back to the fireplace and tossed in a handful of powder, needing solitude. "The Olive Branch!"

He didn't stay long- just long enough to snatch up his broomstick from beside the door. Then he Apparated directly to the team's practice field. Some therapeutic flying was in order.

The pitch was completely deserted, not to mention dark. It probably wasn't entirely safe, either, but Oliver let that thought drift from his mind. Almost no one could beat him in the air. The increasing space between him and the ground was his safety net. He pushed himself faster, further, as if attempting to out-fly his sorrow.

Oliver's sorrows, however, were at least as fast as he was. The furious early autumn wind could not blow them away, tenacious as it was. So he leaned down, upper body almost parallel to his broomstick, and let his thoughts take over.

__

Twenty-two years. He closed his eyes and flipped himself one-hundred and eighty degrees, released the broom with both hands and rolled back upright again. _Twenty-two, and what have I done?_ Oliver scoffed. _Learned to play bloody Quidditch_. And yet people even younger and less experienced than he was were out fighting the Dark Lord. It didn't make much sense. 

He rounded the far end of the pitch at breakneck speed, ducking still lower and weaving in and out of the obstacles that had been set up. Finally realizing how dark it had gotten, he decided enough was enough and Apparated home.

Not bothering to do anything about the sweat he was bathed in, Oliver sank unhappily into his armchair. _What a mess_. 

He wasn't referring to his flat. It was immaculate- he was practicing with the team so much that he was hardly home to sully it. He was without a doubt the dirtiest thing there, and he was probably making a nice stain on his chair but he didn't really mind. Sighing, he waved his wand vaguely at something on the other side of the room. "_Accio_." Oliver grabbed the cool bottle out of the air. The cleaning lady had put the tumblers somewhere... he cast about for them, finally spotting them on the shelf above the wireless. 

Right beside a very old picture from his Hogwarts days.

He stood to examine it more carefully, pouring a half a glass of the alcohol and looking at the rest mournfully. _No sense in that_, he told himself sternly. _You can't bring her back and besides, it's not good for you_. He Banished the bottle back to the small refrigeration unit. 

Oliver tried to turn back around without looking too closely at the photograph again, but it beckoned to him. It had been taken in his seventh year by the little Gryffindor with the camera. The whole Gryffindor team was there, laughing, smiling, and waving. The twins were wearing identical and very smug expressions, each clapping a hand on the Seeker's shoulder. Potter himself looked vaguely astonished that he had managed this feat. Angelina and Katie were jumping up and down, hugging each other and screaming incoherently. The photograph only played back a few seconds of real time: Oliver, wiping a joyous tear from his face, passed the Quidditch Cup to Harry, both of them grinning like crazy. And then Alicia Spinnet leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek, blushing.

He turned away from the picture and finished his drink. Somehow, the alcohol failed to dull the emotion that washed over him. There was still the constant ache of knowing that one of his friends was gone forever. But below that, deep under the skin, Oliver felt the stirrings of genuine anger like he had never felt before. The Dark Lord- no, Voldemort; from now on the word 'lord' was banished- had gone too far. How could anyone- _anyone_ hurt that... that...

He found his eyes drawn back to the photograph. 'Innocent little girl' would have fit in the blank, if that had been how he thought of Alicia most of the time. However, he had almost never thought of her like that. It had always been 'the center Chaser' or 'one of my teammates' and, later on, 'my friend.' 

Oliver did not want to know how she had died. He did not even want to know what Charlie had done to Lucius Malfoy. He shuddered, remembering the state of Charlie's robes. Curse wounds did not usually bleed. While he was disgusted by the thought of what one of the Light Siders had done, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have had the urge to do the same. 

But did that make it right?

He shook his head. Nothing could justify violence of that kind. It made them out to be as bad as the Enemy. 

Which left Oliver with an interesting question: since when did he fit in with 'them'? Always before there had been a clear mental separation between him and freedom fighters like the Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix, but this had gone. As much as it astounded him, as much as he was sure he was a complete lunatic, he knew what he had to do.

So he reached for the contract renewal that he had been given what felt like years ago, although it couldn't have been more than a few hours, and cast it into his fireplace. 

As he watched the edges of the parchment curl and smoke, Oliver realized that it was not only a job but an entire way of life that he had just thrown away. But it didn't matter anymore. There were, he reflected, watching the ashes crumble, more important things. How could he even think about playing a game while others were putting themselves on the line for the sake of humankind?

He looked at the photograph on the mantelpiece once more before flicking his wand to extinguish the flames. It was high time, Oliver decided to himself, that he learned how to prioritize.

*

Oliver had never really tried to make his way around the Ministry building by himself before. Actually, he'd only been once- to get the Apparition license he considered superfluous. Flying was more enjoyable, anyway. As far as Oliver was concerned, the only thing Apparition was good for was getting you to and from practice when a) you were running late, which didn't happen often, or b) you were so totally drenched in sweat that flying would be a serious health hazard. Admittedly, this second event happened rather more often. 

He turned around another corner and finally admitted to himself that he was quite lost. There didn't seem to be anyone around to ask for directions, either. Cursing himself mentally, he backtracked a corridor or two until he was somewhere at least sparsely populated.

To tell the truth, there was actually only one other person in the hallway, and Oliver wasn't really sure that he wanted to approach her. She had dark skin and light hair, and while she was a good deal shorter than him she was moving awfully quickly. She might have even been pretty, but she was wearing a dark scowl and looked as if she had been losing sleep lately. Then again, he didn't have much choice. "Excuse me!"

The woman looked at him sharply. "Yes?"

"Er... I'm looking for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he said, feeling silly. "Could you..." He trailed off as the woman smiled, easing the expression on her face.

"You're in luck. I'm just on my way over there now." She had some sort of slight, mildly pleasing accent. It wasn't completely foreign, but it wasn't British, either.

Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. "Great. I'm glad someone knows her way around."

She smiled apologetically. "Not too well, I'm afraid. I work in the Foreign Relations department."

__

That explains the accent. "That must be interesting."

"Not so much when you're the Australian ambassador. Sometimes I wish relations between the two Ministries were a bit more strained."

He laughed. "I doubt it would be very interesting to have to convey veiled insults from one country to another."

She gave him a dry half-grin. "Well, perhaps not."

A few corridors later, Oliver noticed her regarding him curiously out of the corner of her eye. When he opened his mouth to ask her about it, he found that she was a step ahead of him. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" 

He shrugged. It was mildly refreshing that it had taken her this long. He was starting to understand what Potter must feel like, everyone everywhere knowing your name and your face. He extended his hand. "Oliver Wood." 

"Oliver Wood," she mused as she shook it. "Oh! Puddlemere, right?" 

He nodded. 

"Katherine Beard." An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of Oliver's mouth. "People who don't want to get on my bad side call me Kate." 

"Well, Kate, if I'm not being too nosy, what is your business in the Law Enforcement department? You did say you were an ambassador." 

She sighed. This, apparently, was the reason for her foul mood earlier on. "My best friend is a complete idiot and got himself court-martialed." She pursed her lips. "I'm here for moral support. Although if he thinks he's going to get away with behavior like that so easily..." She looked at him curiously. "What are you doing here?" 

As the door to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement came into view in front of them, Oliver felt his first misgivings. "I have no idea." And then they went in. 

In the chaos that was the DMLE, Oliver soon found that he had lost his companion. Aurors, lawyers, and their kin were running about everywhere. People with folders, people in handcuffs, people being herded towards the courtrooms, and people like him who really didn't know what they were doing crowded the corridor. Renewing his resolve, he turned down the corridor he hoped would lead him to the Aurors' offices.

Strangely enough, this one was nearly empty. The walls were almost completely uninterrupted by wall hangings, windows, or doors- in fact, on two separate occasions Oliver could have sworn he saw people walk straight through solid walls. He continued on for what felt like a very long time, and finally, when he was almost ready to turn back, there was a door.

It wasn't really touching the walls. In fact, there was a good six inches of empty space between the doorframe and any given wall. It was also hovering a few inches above the floor. A bronze plaque on the door read _Auror Office- Join Up, Meet Interesting People, and Kill Them_. With a feeling of foreboding, Oliver reached out and grasped the handle.

It turned of its own accord and the door opened. A voice from inside called, "Come in, Mr. Wood. We've been expecting you." Blinking, Oliver took a step up into the room.

The room turned out to be almost every bit as white and sterile as the rest of the Ministry buildings, but considerably more personal. A large foe-glass hung on the wall between examples of modern art. The practical gray magi-plastic desk was piled high with papers; barely visible over the tops of them was a youngish man with dark hair and chalkboard-green eyes. The nameplate, almost buried under the paperwork, bore the name Gen. W. Antilles. 

"If you're going to be here, you might as well introduce yourself."

More than a little taken aback, Oliver forgot himself. "Forgive me, Sir, I was under the impression that you already knew who I was."

Instead of reprimanding him, W. Antilles just nodded. "Fair enough. Sit," he commanded. A chair rolled up to Oliver's side of the desk, but he made no move towards it.

"I'd prefer to stand, Sir, if it's all the same to you." 

Again, the other man did not try to convince him otherwise. "Alright." He regarded Oliver contemplatively; Oliver did his utmost not to fidget. After a few seconds of intense scrutiny, he said, "Oliver, what are you doing here?"

He answered without hesitation. "I'm offering my services to the war effort. Sir." He wondered belatedly if he sounded like a naive schoolboy.

Antilles still seemed unfazed. "Okay." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, then surprised Oliver by putting his feet up on his desk. "Why, if I may ask, are you giving up Quidditch?"

The answer came again unbidden. Oliver wondered if, subconsciously, he had been thinking about this for longer than he had known about. "I feel my talents can be put to better use here, Sir. It seems frivolous to sit around making exorbitant amounts of money playing a game when other people are fighting to keep everyone safe."

Another nod; another analytical stare. Then Antilles shook his head. "I won't lie to you, kid, we need people like you, people willing to fight. Of course, I can't just put you on assignment right off. If I hired you, what would you bring to the department?"

This took a good deal more thought. _What am I bringing?_ he wondered. _A lust for revenge? For justice? Or something not so noble?_ And yet it occurred to him that this might not be exactly what Antilles was asking. _Does he mean skills? I can fly. I can counter-curse as well as the next bloke. I'm not very sociable but, admittedly, that has little to do with being an Auror. Look at Mad-Eye Moody. _Finally, Oliver answered in just two words. "My all."

At last it seemed that he had given an answer that the other man had not been anticipating. He took his feet down and propped his elbows on the desk. "Now that's interesting." This time, when the other man was sizing him up, Oliver didn't feel the least bit fidgety. "Let me ask you this: Do you have problems with authority?"

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Do I have what?! "I'm not quite sure I know what you mean, sir."

There was definitely some pressure coming from Antilles now. "Oh, I think you do. Let's not insult my intelligence by supposing your answer wasn't in the affirmative."

Oliver remained impassive.

"You're damn good on a broom, Oliver, and your mind is definitely suited for a certain project of mine." He smiled, the first hint of an expression Oliver had seen him wear. "So two things remain. Would you be willing to attend an intensive Auror training program? I'm sorry, but it's a prerequisite. No exceptions- they just get people killed."

Oliver nodded curtly. It hadn't even occurred to him that he might be turned down. He supposed it was probably an ego problem. "And the other?"

The General's smile turned dry. "Oliver, have you ever taken Care of Magical Creatures?"

*

A little over an hour later, Oliver left the head office, brain stuffed full of things he hoped he would never need to know, secret passwords and techniques. He also had a tentative schedule for the next week- meal times, run times, dueling and survival courses. His name was registered on a list of reserved train tickets somewhere that was probably halfway across the country already. And he was even more determined than he had been before to make a difference.

He could hear someone yelling down the corridor and winced, recognizing the voice. If he was not mistaken, it belonged to the frustrated young Kate, only now she sounded more angry than frustrated. "…I can't believe you would do that!" Oliver came to a halt at the end of the hall, not wanting to continue for fear of interrupting some sort of private moment.

"What was I supposed to do?" responded a frustrated voice that Oliver instantly recognized as that of Charlie Weasley. "Just stand by and let Malfoy do those things? Let his crimes go unpunished? Even if I had brought him in, he would've got let off. You know that-"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Charlie," Kate said bitterly, and Oliver retreated a step in spite of himself. "You put yourself at risk. _You_ know _that_- you know what you did was stupid and wrong. You could have lost your job, yes, and I realize that it just doesn't mean that much to you anymore, but you could have lost a lot more than that! You could have _died_, Charlie. You know he would have killed you without a second thought. You have lost a lot of respect from me as it is." She turned a cold shoulder and started stalking away.

Oliver's stomach twisted. He didn't want to be reminded of Charlie and Malfoy's duel- if it could even be called that. The entire thing sickened him beyond belief. And, once again, the loss of Alicia struck him. He steeled himself against his emotions. He would not let the Dark Side get to him anymore. Starting very soon, he would be actively doing something to stop that sort of crime from being perpetrated. He knew he would have to remain aloof- personal involvement always ended in pain. Besides, only extroverts cried twice.

Charlie recovered slightly faster than Oliver did. The initial stricken expression did not fade from his face as he reached his hand out after her, entreating her to stop and reconsider. "Kate-"

He must have caught her hand, because she spun around furiously, fighting to disentangle his fingers from her own. "Don't you dare touch me," she spat. "Don't you dare. I can't believe you- you're no better than they are."

Although Oliver could not see Charlie's face, he could imagine what it looked like. Being party to the conversation was quite enough to establish the bounds of this particular friendship. Charlie had crossed the line, yes, but now so had Kate, and it was not likely to be a peaceful parting.

Even as these thoughts struck him, though, he was proved wrong. Kate, seeming to realize what she had just said, stopped struggling with Charlie and covered her mouth with her other hand. "Charlie, I didn't mean-"

It was he who had turned his head away now, studying the far wall. "But you're right," he said quietly. Oliver barely picked up the words.

Kate did not deny the fact, but neither did she mention it again; and Oliver retreated as quickly as he could down another random corridor, trying to escape their friendship.

*

He surveyed the station with a vague sense of satisfaction. It was unlikely the Muggles knew that their transportation system was being 'borrowed' at all- nearly all of the passengers, Oliver knew, were Auror instructors or trainees or other important Ministry personnel, yet they were not using one of the in-between railways that the wizards had. There was a perfectly good reason for this, he fully realized- if they did use such a wizarding platform, it would have been a prime target for Lucius Malfoy and his kin. Oliver often wondered if even Voldemort could control his Death Eaters.

The station was much more modern than Oliver remembered from when he was young, but the general atmosphere and layout were the same. The hustle and bustle and hurry and worry emotions were palpable as he boarded the train and tossed his duffel into a private compartment.

Outside his window, a lone sparrow flew, darting in and out of the wires, avoiding puffs of steam as best it could but being tossed about by gusts of air nonetheless. Oliver watched it struggle for a few moments. The tiny bird carried a twig that was rather large in comparison, and more than once he was certain that the bird would just give up and plummet to its death, but the thing kept on. It fought doggedly and determinedly against physics and nature and eventually reached its destination- a sheltered nest that Oliver could barely make out under the protection of the station's roof.

If anyone else thought it a rather odd season for a sparrow to be building a nest, no one commented. Possibly no one else even noticed, but Oliver did, and although he did not know it at the time, this was to be one of the more important events of his life.

*


End file.
